


Little Light of Mine

by ThereBeWhalesHere



Series: Stories about Shine [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), Mother-Son Relationship, Music, Other, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeWhalesHere/pseuds/ThereBeWhalesHere
Summary: When she becomes a mother, Wanda Trzebinski shelves her once-wild life to care for her son, putting everything on the line to make sure he has every opportunity in life. Being a single mother to a boy like Shine isn't easy -- and it gets harder year by year as he finds love, loses it, and finds and loses himself. But all the two of them have is each other, and she knows never to throw that away.Spanning 26 years (1959-1985), this story follows a flawed but loving mother, trying to do her best for her son. Set in New York City.(This story overlaps slightly with the events ofThe Silence After Song, but you don't need to have read it to understand this.)





	Little Light of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> As promised ages ago, the story behind Shine's ridiculous name! And, well, a bunch of other pivotal moments, as told through the eyes of his kickass mom.
> 
> I have only cried while writing a few times in my life, but this story did it to me TWICE. It might not make y'all cry, but I just ..... really love Shine. And I really love Wanda. Which is why this got so fucking lsdkfjkfdsljfa;lsdkjf long. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! <3

**April, 1959**

Wanda didn’t know who she could blame for this, except of course she could’ve easily blamed herself if she were the type to do so. That whole, wild weekend had been her choice, after all. And it had been her choice to refuse to risk getting rid of the resulting happy accident _._ But in this moment — clutching stark white sheets in her aching fingers, sweat dripping from her hair, the sound of sirens and honking cars outside drowned out by gospel music slipping through the radio speaker over the door, a cross hanging over her bed, those religious nurses with coifs and veils over their heads casting her judgemental looks —  she wished desperately she could shift the blame to someone else. Juan, maybe, or Leonard, Tommy, or any of the guys whose names she couldn’t quite recall — maybe that tall blonde, or, god, the guy with the tight leather jacket, whose cheeks and chin were rough with stubble that had rasped against her throat. Oh, _him_. It could’ve been any of them.

 

But this _had_ been Wanda’s choice, and no matter how much it hurt, she wished she could blame anyone else.

 

A nun entered with an extra pillow, skirting the sidelines of the room as if childbirth was contagious. “Where is the husband?” she whispered to one of her sisters. Ah, it wasn’t childbirth she was afraid of, then. Just sin. Wanda may have been grunting with pain, her head flung back against the plastic headboard, gasping and whimpering, but that didn’t mean she’d lost her hearing.

 

“There _is_ no husband,” she snapped through gritted teeth before the other nurse could answer. The one between her legs ducked her head as if to avoid the fallout. “Jesus _Christ,_ I’ve said that a hundred — ah, _God_ — a hundred _times_ by now.”

 

Catholics.

 

The nurse crossed herself hurriedly and turned away, a flush on her cheeks, and Wanda squeezed her eyes shut, groaning.

 

Through the dusty brown speaker above the door, the notes of a familiar song came through, slipping in between Wanda’s panting, uneven breath, and Wanda found herself laughing, even as tears squeezed themselves from her eyes.

 

 _This little light of mine_ , a voice sang, _I’m gonna let it shine_.

 

“Push,” the woman between her legs said, “the baby’s crowning.”

 

Wanda screamed, tensed every cord of every muscle in her body. She’d never felt pain like this in her life, and she wished she’d had time to call her friends, her boyfriend. Someone. She wished she hadn’t cut ties with her parents ten years ago, wished she had anywhere to go after this, wished she wasn’t alone.

 

But she was alone. She was always alone anymore, it seemed.

 

 _This little light of mine_ , the choir chimed in, _I’m gonna let it shine_.

 

“Here it comes,” the nun said, and Wanda pushed, sobbing, light-headed with lack of breath. Alone.

 

A baby began to cry.

 

 _Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine_.

 

* * *

  


**March, 1966**

“Shine,” Wanda admonished, tugging her son’s hand from his face and pulling him hurriedly off to the side of the crowded sidewalk. They found berth by the newspaper racks between the laundromat and the bolted, chain-link fence that blocked its alleyway, a small respite from the rush of people. Shine didn’t protest, merely ducked his head as though examining the old chewing gum on the concrete. “Kiddo,” Wanda said, softer, “why didn’t you tell me ‘til now?” He was so small; his hand eclipsed by hers as she held it tight, kneeling in front of him.

 

No one paid them any attention as they passed. Kids cried in this neighborhood all the time. Not Wanda’s kid, though. Shine was a quiet child, sensitive, but never where anyone but Wanda could see him.

 

“It’s stupid,” he huffed. “ _I’m_ stupid.”

 

“Don’t you say that,” she said, and she reached up to wipe away some of his sloppy tears. He turned to the side, but that didn’t stop her. Cupping his flushed cheek, she tried to offer him the kind of understanding smile that he wasn’t getting at school. If she’d only known the teacher was singling him out, she’d have raised hell to the principal when Shine had first come home hanging his head. But that was something she could address later. Right now, she had a crying seven-year-old on her hands. “You’re not stupid, alright? You’ve just gotta find your niche, kiddo,” she said.

 

“What’s that?” He was still pouting, she noticed, but curious. He was always curious.

 

“A niche is… well, it’s something you’re good at, something you enjoy and want to do. Maybe math ain't your niche —”

 

“Or reading,” he interrupted petulantly, “or science, or spelling, or art, or —”

 

“ _But_ ,” she cut him off pointedly, catching his bright brown eyes, still glassy with unshed tears. “you’ll find it. You’re gonna shine, sweetie, I just know it.”

 

He let out a little wet laugh, a tiny snort of a thing, and Wanda smiled, her heart filling with warmth. “You always say that,” he said, but he was smiling now.

 

“And I always mean it. You remember why I named you Shine?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Shine tugged her hand, indicating that he was ready to get moving now. That was probably for the best. The sun was setting, and she didn’t want to be caught in this neighborhood once it got dark. “Because I’m your ‘little light?’” he quoted with a surprising amount of derision for someone so small. She laughed, standing and pulling her son along.

 

“You’re my little light,” she agreed. “And you’re gonna shine so bright someday.”

 

* * *

 

**July, 1968**

Music. She heard it wafting over the summer air as she and Shine wandered down the street towards home. She couldn't help her smile at the sound. Something classical she couldn't identify, but enjoyed all the same. She had always loved music, and it was rare enough to find street performers in this little corner of Maspeth. Beside her, Shine stopped in his tracks, then turned to face her.

 

“What is that?” He asked.

 

“Music,” she replied, laughing.

 

“I know _that_ ,” he whined, flopping his arms at his sides. “I mean _what_ is it.”

 

Thankfully, Wanda knew her son well enough to understand the opaque question. She listened, considering. “String quartet, maybe?” she mused. “Violin, cello, some other shit. You wanna see if we can’t watch for a while?”

 

His eyes lit up, and he nodded. “It’s pretty,” he said, holding out his hand, and Wanda took it, smiling as he led her along, following the tune.

 

A tiny crowd had gathered just a little way’s down the street, right near the path leading to the park. Through their shoulders, Wanda could see a few figures wearing white suits, each holding an instrument in his hands. They played cheerily, and Wanda thought she saw a smile on the nearest performer’s face.

 

Releasing her hand, Shine ran forward to join the crowd, and Wanda laughed, following after him. “Shine,” she called, but he didn’t seem to hear.

 

Shouldering her own way into the audience, Wanda caught sight of the brown mop of Shine’s hair near the front, eyes fixed on the man closest to him, the violinist. He was the one who had been smiling, his white teeth shining in the midday sun. He was handsome, to be sure, dark-skinned and wide-shouldered, his fingers deftly moving over the strings.

 

Wanda joined her son at the fore of the crowd and crouched beside him, following the line of his eyes. They were wide and wondering as they watched the movement of that man’s hands. “You like it?” Wanda asked quietly, and Shine held up a finger to his lips.

 

“Shh,” he said, gaze unbroken. She giggled, turning back to the performers. The answer in that was clear. Before Shine had come into her life, Wanda had traveled to music festivals all over the country, and seen more live music than she could even begin to count. Bands playing on intimate stages that, now, played the biggest venues in the world. Somehow, she had thought that part of her life was over. But for Shine?

 

For Shine, maybe it was just beginning.

 

The song ended, the performers bowed, the crowd clapped, and after only a moment the quartet struck up another tune, some kind of victory march. “Which one is that?” Shine asked, pointing to the violinist.

 

“That’s the violin,” she answered. “Nice, yeah? Why don’t we stick around ‘til they’re done. I bet he’ll let you look at it.”

 

He turned his eyes to her, grin wide on his face. “You think so?” he asked brightly, and she laughed, glancing back to the musician who seemed to notice their interest. He grinned, tilted the instrument toward them, and played.  

 

* * *

 

**September, 1969**

In the sunlight, Wanda watched the smoke from her cigarette curl up into the air, casting dancing shadows on the grass. Beside her on the bench, Shine had his knees up, his composition book open in his lap as he scribbled away. The other kids were playing, smacking each other in a raucous game of tag, but Shine said he wasn't going to go play until he finished his homework. He'd been at it for almost an hour.

 

It wasn’t like him to pass up playing for school work. The boy _hated_ school. “Need help, kiddo?” Wanda asked cautiously, knowing he could get defensive about his lessons. If he deigned to do his homework, he liked to do it on his own. Always out to prove himself.                             

 

“Maybe,” he answered.

 

“What are you working on, then?” Wanda asked. She flicked away her cigarette and scooted over while her son reluctantly lowered his knees and laid the notebook open. He'd drawn a tree, a massive thing, and taken the time to detail all the wood and knots. Every leaf. But he hadn't written a word.

 

“Family tree,” he said softly.

 

Wanda stared at him in the warm summer sun, his forehead wrinkled, his lips down-turned. It was Saturday. He should have been having fun with his friends. But instead he was struggling, and it was Wanda's fault. Her first instinct was to call the assignment baloney, blame the teacher for Shine’s troubles as she usually did, but the makeup of a family was a fair lesson for a ten-year-old to learn in school. Goodness knew Shine wouldn’t learn it from her.

 

“Oh,” she said.

 

“I think I drew it too big,” he said, scratching his eraser at the corner of the page where a stray mark had slipped by. “Darren has his mom and dad and grandparents and two sisters and a dog and four aunts and two uncles, and even _his_ tree is smaller than this one.”

 

“It can be a big tree,” Wanda said, hoping it was a comfort. “Why don't we start with you and me?” She pointed to the top of the tree, where Shine wrote ‘mom’ in big block letters. Then, on a lower branch, he wrote his own name.

 

He hovered his pencil over a spot near her. “What was my dad's name?” he asked. He wasn't looking at her.

 

“I don't know,” she answered. He clutched the pencil a little tighter.

 

“Grandma and grandpa? I gotta have a grandma and grandpa.”

 

Wanda felt her chest clench. “I — well, kiddo, yeah. Somewhere out in the world. But they aren't _family_.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I ran away when I was just a little older than you.”

 

“Why?”

 

Wanda huffed, flopping her hands in her lap. Of course he was curious. “They didn't want me to be who I was, you know? And if they knew you was around, they wouldn't want you to be who _you_ are, neither.” The truth of that hurt, but she had known it from the moment she first held her son in her arms, and it only became more obvious year by year. Shine was different. And the people her parents were would’ve beaten that difference out of him, if they could. They certainly would have tried.

 

“What's wrong with who we are?” Shine asked, a note of panic in his voice.

 

“Nothing!” Wanda rushed to assure him. “Not a damn thing. That's the point. Your grandma and grandpa weren't good people, kiddo. We don't want them on that tree.”

 

“What did they do? Why were they bad?” Wanda looked into her son's eyes, wondering if she could bear to tell a ten year old boy — her sweet little light — the extent of what she had suffered.

 

“They hurt me,” Wanda said. “And I knew they wouldn’t stop no matter what I did. That’s why I left, kiddo. I promise it was for the best, alright?”

 

Shine knit his brows and looked back to the tree. “Do I have an aunt and uncle?”

 

Wanda had no siblings, and opened her mouth to tell Shine as much. But at the disappointed look in his eyes, as if he already knew the answer, a flash of inspiration hit her. “You got two aunts,” she said, tapping the page near her name. “Put ‘em here. Betsy and Maria.”

 

“Betsy and Maria aren’t my _aunts_ ,” he protested, looking up at her.

 

“Sure they are! Might as well be. Love you like a nephew and they can't have kids of their own. ‘Sides, we lived with ‘em long enough back in tent city. Come on, put ‘em down.” Reluctantly, Shine did so, scrawling their names near Wanda's.

 

“Who else?” he asked.

 

“Why don't you put Agnes on there? Darren too.”

 

“They're just friends,” Shine said, confused. “Ma, this is a _family_ tree.”

 

“Family’s what you make it, kiddo. Blood don’t matter so much. It’s all about the people you care about, who care about you. Darren and Agnes care about you, right?”

 

Shine’s look of frustration seemed to relax a little bit as he wrote down his friends’ names, drawing a little heart beside each of them. Relieved, Wanda leaned back against the bench. “Oh, what about Robbie at the newstand? He's like a grumpy uncle. And Hildi? She's always making us perogies, ain't she? Almost like a grandma.”

 

As he scrawled the names, a small smile bloomed on Shine’s face, the branches of his tree filling up bit by bit. “Can I add Rabbi Alderman on here?” he asked.

 

“That's a great idea!” Wanda said.

 

They sat there for a few minutes, trading names. They added Jorge, the butcher from the deli near their apartment, who had been Wanda’s on-and-off boyfriend for a few months now. They added Mrs.Gomez, the special math teacher Shine had been assigned who had always been patient with his slow progress. They added Daisy, the woman they’d met at Woodstock just last month who’d let them sleep in her van to escape the mud. On and on the list went, and soon those branches were overwhelmed with names. Shine smiled widely as he squeezed his friend Dorothy onto the branch closest to him, and Wanda felt the worry ease, just a little.

 

“That's a real good tree,” she said. “And, you know, the more people you meet, the bigger those branches are gonna need to be.”

 

Shine stared at it, reading the names, looking proud for once in his young life. Wanda made a mental note to call his teacher on Monday, just to be sure she was prepared for Shine’s assignment. Shine's family tree might be unconventional, but it was all he had. And she didn't want _anyone_ to tell him it wasn't enough.

 

“Thanks for helping, ma,” Shine said. “Can I go play now?”

 

“I've only been asking you to for an hour,” she said, laughing. “Go on, then.”

 

He jumped up and tossed the composition book onto the bench, running toward the group of kids playing tag. Wanda pulled her cigarettes from her pocket and lit another, eyes on her boy the whole time.

 

Smiling, laughing, he blended into the group of unfamiliar children as if he’d been their friend his whole life. He had a talent for that, for making friends, for collecting family. She only hoped he’d realize that someday.

 

* * *

 

**April, 1970**

Wanda had a feeling that her son knew what was in the package. It was about the right size, though its shape was obscured by layers and layers of crumpled newspaper wrapping. She’d taped it haphazardly at work that day, where she’d been keeping the damn thing locked in the bodega’s tiny office so Shine couldn’t find it before his birthday. There weren’t many places to hide a present like this in their little apartment, with Shine’s tiny nook of a room and Wanda’s barely bigger than his own.

 

He sat now in the kitchenette by the window, staring at the package in the center of the kitchen table as Wanda traipsed from room to room, trying to track down her hair tie and a few discarded bobby pins. She’d be off to her second job here in a few minutes, but there was just enough time to watch him unwrap this gift. She’d be damned if she missed this moment after nearly a year saving money for it.

 

“Can I open it _now_?” He called out as she finally found a bobby pin on the kitchen countertop. He plucked idly at a stray corner of newspaper, and it looked as though the barely suppressed urge to pick it up and shake it was causing tremors.

 

“Okay, okay,” Wanda sighed, turning and sticking the pin in her hair. “You ain't one for patience are you, kiddo? It's like you was raised in a barn.” Settling quickly into the seat across from Shine at the kitchen table, she took a deep breath. Shine watched her with breathless anticipation.

 

“Okay,” she said again, hands flat on the table. “Now.”

 

Hopping to his feet, Shine tore into the tape and newspaper with murderous glee, tossing newsprint into the air as it fluttered around them like snow.

 

“Careful!” Wanda said, but she was laughing — and laughed all the louder when Shine stopped. His eyes traced the slick black faux-leather and brass buckles of what was, unmistakably, an instrument case.

 

“Ma,” he said softly. “Is it…?”

 

Wanda couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t much for patience either. Leaning forward, she ripped the rest of the newspaper off in one swipe. “Ta da!” She sing-songed, holding out her hands like a magician.

 

In the center of the table, the violin case looked out of place, too nice to belong to folks like them, though it was about as cheap an instrument as she could find. It was an indulgence for Wanda. An indulgence for Shine. But ever since he’d seen that quartet in the park, and ever since she’d started taking him around the temple to listen to the orchestra that rehearsed there on weekends, he’d been begging for a violin of his own. There had been something in the shine of his eyes every time he asked that told her this could be something special. And, if nothing else, it would make him happy for a little while.

 

He picked up the case as if he were holding glass, the last shreds of newspaper falling away, and cradled it to his chest. It was too big for him, Wanda noticed immediately, but he’d grow into it. Their eyes met, and she saw tears welling in his.

 

“Thanks, ma,” he said quietly, and Wanda smiled, more than a little proud of herself. “I’m gonna — I’m gonna get real good at this, I promise. I’ll practice every day.”

 

“I know,” Wanda said. And she did. “Happy birthday, my little light.”

 

* * *

 

 

**June, 1971**

Wanda didn’t know how many times she’d taken the subway in her life. She’d lived in New York City since skipping out of Kansas when she was just thirteen, and though she’d traveled all over the country before she had Shine, much of her travel had been in transit stations just like this one.

 

Except, of course, no transit station in the city was _just_ like this one, not right now, because a sound was rising up above the hurried footsteps and the hum of fluorescent lights, echoing off the walls and filling the station with music. “Mr. Sandman,” one of her favorite songs, on violin.

 

Shine stood off to the side of the crowd, his violin case open at his feet. Twelve years old, a shock of brown hair over his eye as he tilted his head against the instrument, his eyes closed in concentration. Wanda had seeded his violin case with a handful of change, and now she stood off to the side, watching, waiting, keeping an eye on Shine’s smile because she had told him he could only do this if he was having fun.

 

He _was_ having fun. As passersby tossed change into the case, or stopped to listen for a few moments, he would flash little winks and shining grins, and Wanda could tell his nerves had already faded. His first public performance, and he was _killing_ it.

 

Nevermind that it had cost every penny of her savings, getting her son that violin was the greatest idea she’d ever had. And watching him now, she knew. _This_ was his niche. He wasn’t naturally very good at math, or science, writing or reading, but he could run that bow along those strings like he was born to do it, and when he dared to sing in front of people she knew he could do that too.

 

All these months, playing along to the radio, and finally Shine could see — just as Wanda had — that it was all worth it.

 

There, in the light coming in from the subway entrance, he was shining.

 

* * *

 

**May, 1974**

The contents of the violin case clattered and fluttered delightfully onto the little round table, coins rolling onto the linoleum floor, crumpled dollar bills bouncing. Shine stood triumphant with the case overturned in his hands, smiling wide as Wanda clapped her hands in delight.

 

“Oh, honey,” she said softly, taking up one of the bills with a near-trembling hand. “This is a _lot_ of money.” He’d been getting more and more from his impromptu street performances every day, clearly getting better with how much he practiced, but this was the first time he’d brought home so many bills. It was like a windfall.

 

Shine set the case on the table over his Scrooge McDuck pile of wealth, kneeling to retrieve his instrument. “I know!” he said, clearly not even trying to suppress his excitement, his pride. “Twenty-eight dollars and 54 cents. I almost got dinner on the way home, but I thought you might wanna use it for cigarettes or somethin.”

 

Wanda’s heart ached. She wanted Shine to keep every cent of this — she really did — but any money would help them right now. He always told her how much he earned night-by-night. Down to the penny. Wanda wasn’t so great at math herself, but she kept a mental tally, and someday she knew she’d pay it all back to him. “You did great,” she said softly, guilt weighing her down even as she smiled past it. “What was the moneymaker today?”

 

“‘Rockin’ Robin’ believe it or not,” he said with a shrug, snapping the case closed and flopping into his seat. He looked exhausted. “Got ten whole dollars while I was playing it.”

 

“Folks love that high-energy stuff,” Wanda responded. “When are you going to write your own music?”

 

“When the hits stop makin’ money,” he shot back, grinning. “‘Sides, no one wants to hear my stuff.”

 

“Sure they do,” she said, beginning to unfold each crumpled bill to lay it flat on the table. “And I can tell you from experience that if you wanna impress a girl, writing a song for her is the best way to do it.”

 

Shine laughed, but it was a nervous bark of a thing that caused Wanda to lift her eyes to him, pausing in her task. There was something in his eyes — fear? — and his smile faded as he seemed to realize that she noticed. “Well,” he said quickly, “I’m gonna stick to rock ‘n’ roll for now. I see them old guys playin’ Bach and they don’t get nearly the kinda bread I do.”

 

Filing away his momentary pause for later reflection, Wanda gave Shine a smile. “You’re also 15,” she reminded him, chuckling. “Just you wait until your youthful charm wears off.”

 

Shine huffed. “That ain’t never gonna happen.”

 

* * *

 

**November, 1976**

She didn’t worry about him, not really. Shine had grown up on the streets of the city — sometimes literally, when they hadn’t had a place to live — and even when he stayed out late, she knew that he could take care of himself. He was almost eighteen now (God, nearly an _adult_ ) and he would be fine. He had grown used to the danger of subway stations, knew how to spot muggers, and how to avoid them.

 

And he would be _fine_.

 

The first night he didn’t come home had been a little more than a month ago. Wanda had fallen asleep in the armchair and only woken up after sunrise when the lock on the door clicked, and Shine came shuffling through, violin case in-hand, looking sheepish but blessedly unharmed.

 

He hadn’t stayed out _every_ night since then, but he sure as hell stayed out most of them. Returning at sunrise — or later — became somewhat of a habit. Sometimes Wanda would work the night shift at the bodega, and she wouldn’t know he was gone until she herself came wandering home at 3 a.m. to find an empty apartment. And no matter how Wanda asked, Shine wouldn’t tell her why.

 

Oh, he’d make something up, sure. But Wanda could see through his lies so easily, she wondered why Shine even bothered. Probably, she supposed, because the little bastard thought he was getting away with it, when really Wanda just hoped — wished — he could find the strength to tell her the truth on his own.

 

The truth — undoubtedly the very secret she had suspected for years, now. She hoped he knew he could trust her with that truth, but every day that passed without a confession stoked a fire of nerves in her belly. Had she ever suggested to him that she wouldn’t be okay with it? Had she ever said something to make him believe that she wouldn’t love him unconditionally? If she had, she needed to make it right. For her sake as much as Shine’s.

 

So, after a month of unconvincing secrecy, she asked.

 

“What’s his name?” The words felt like the first breath of fresh air she’d taken in months, even spoken around a mouthful of smoke. Across the rickety breakfast table, his own cigarette smouldering into ash, Shine looked up from his magazine, his eyes going wide.

 

“What?”

 

“The man you’ve been seeing,” she clarified, snubbing out her butt in the ashtray in the center of the table and lifting her eyes once more to Shine’s. He looked like a frightened rabbit, and Wanda could swear she could _hear_ his heart speeding up.

 

“What — what are you talking about?”

 

She tried for a smile, if only so Shine knew it was alright — as if he didn’t know already. Betsy and Maria had been a part of Shine’s life since the day he was born, and he knew what they were to each other. He should know his mother wouldn’t judge him for this.

 

“Every time you’ve had a crush,” Wanda said gently, “you’ve been so excited to tell me. ‘Ma I think I’m in love with Dorothy.’ ‘Ma, Agnes gave me a valentine.’ You wear your heart on your sleeve, kiddo. If you’d been spending the night at a girlfriend’s house, you’d’ve told me ages ago.” She paused, searching Shine’s eyes. “Am I wrong?”

 

After a long, quiet moment, Shine took a deep drag of his cigarette, his eyes falling to the ashtray, crusted in weeks-old char. Outside the open window, cars sped by, the world waking up with the sun beginning to peek white through the tall buildings.

 

“Harry,” he finally said in an exhale of smoke. “His name’s Harry.”

 

Wanda let out a breath, relief flooding her. “What’s he like?”

 

Shine’s lips curled in a tiny, almost imperceptible smile as he flicked his ash onto the table. He might have been trying to hide his shaking hands, but Wanda could always tell when her boy was nervous. “Handsome,” he said, and Wanda laughed.

 

“I should hope so. Anything else?”

 

“He likes music,” Shine said, his voice gaining a little courage. “Almost as much as I do. He’s been teaching me guitar. Piano, too. Says I’m a natural.”

 

“Do I get to meet him?” Shine’s eyes shot up to her.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma,” he said, and Wanda leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the expression on her son’s face.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” A thousand worst-case scenarios flowed through her mind. He was on drugs, abusive, antisemitic —

 

“He’s a lawyer,” Shine explained. “And, um. You know. He’s got a lot of money. Big, important work and all.” He huffed out his nose. “He don’t belong here in this part of town any more’n I belong in Manhattan.”

 

“A lawyer?” Wanda asked, eyes wide. “Just how old is this Harry?”

 

“Thirty-seven,” Shine admitted.

 

“He’s too old for you,” Wanda said, raising her eyebrows at her son. “Does he know you’re 17?”

 

“I might’ve told him I was 20,” Shine said, looking down.

 

God, but Shine was too much like her. He lifted his eyes to her then, something tremulous in them — a look of fear she hadn’t seen in years. He’d grown so confident since he was a child, since he found his music. She didn’t like to see him afraid.

 

“You aren’t mad?” he asked then.

 

“I’m a little disappointed you lied about your age,” she said. “But I’m not mad.”

 

Shine snorted, shoving his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. “I mean about him being … you know. A him.”

 

Wanda had almost forgotten that it mattered. Proof, she supposed, that she didn’t understand — couldn’t understand — the lives people like Betsy and Maria led. The life Shine would lead. It would always matter to Shine. At least, until the world got a little better. A little safer.

 

“I’m not mad,” Wanda said. “Just be safe. That’s all I ask, honey.”

 

A sideways smile made its way to his lips, and Wanda had to stop herself from asking more. About this ‘Harry,’ about how long Shine planned to see him, about whether or not he was seeing anyone else. She had suspected since Shine was eight years old that he might be homosexual, or some flavor of it, but she had taught him from the day he started showing interest in dating to be safe — whatever kind of sex he was having. She only prayed he took that to heart.

 

Standing, Shine took a breath. “I should get to the station, get the commuters,” he said. “Been meaning to break out some ABBA, see how they like it.” He gave her a little smile, as if apologizing for changing the subject.

 

“You’ll be a millionaire by sundown,” She promised him, and she stood too. He was taller than her now, by just a bit, his shoulders beginning to fill out. He wasn’t a little boy, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying to protect him.

 

“Harry’s been teaching me some classical stuff,” Shine blurted out, with a look on his face that told Wanda he hadn’t really meant to say it. “Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and shit. Says I could be really good.”

 

Wanda smiled, her heart aching. “You _are_ really good,” she said.

 

“Ain’t no career out there for a pop violinist,” he returned with a smile, and Wanda wondered briefly if Harry had told him that. She certainly never had. “But, uh, I should —”

 

“Go,” Wanda interrupted, waving him away. “I know.”

 

He nodded and turned away, heading toward the door where his violin case sat tilted against the wall. Grabbing it, he glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks, ma,” he said.

 

With that, and one last little smile, he left.

 

And Wanda let him go. She knew, at least, that he would always come back.

 

* * *

 

**March, 1977**

God, Wanda was getting tired. As she stared in the mirror, she tugged at the bags under her eyes, noticing with no small bit of frustration that they had gotten deeper, darker with every passing day. The wrinkles, too, had begun to branch out. Only 38 years old, but she might as well have been a crone. This job was aging her.

 

But it put food on the table and money in the bank, and that was all that really mattered in the end. And, hell, at least it was easy work. Tonight would be like every night — selling cigarettes to the homeless guys off of 43rd, dodging propositions, holding the place together while her boss got high in the plaza.

 

Sighing, Wanda flicked off the light in the bathroom, made her way into the hallway, and barely took a step into the living room before someone leveled a few hard, fast knocks to the door. She paused, wondering if she even wanted to answer. She had to leave in a few minutes for work, and if was those Mormons again she’d be here all day. Wanda could never resist a religious debate.

 

Whoever it was knocked again and Wanda grimaced, making her way to the entryway. When she peeked out the peephole, she saw what looked to be a tall, well-dressed man with dark hair, carrying something in each hand, his burdens distorted in the fish-eye of the glass. Confident that it wasn’t a Mormon at least, Wanda undid the chain lock and opened the door.

 

“Who are you?” She asked in greeting, just as her eyes fell to the instrument cases the man held. A guitar and a violin.

 

Suddenly, Wanda thought she had a pretty good idea who he was. “Ah,” the man said, clearly caught off guard. “I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Mrs. Trzebinski?”

 

She felt something grim and dark settling somewhere in her stomach. A mother's instinct. “Miss,” she corrected immediately, stepping aside and gesturing for the man to enter. “Or didn’t Shine tell ya his ma was an unmarried harlot?”

 

The man stiffened, but (with a glance up and down the stairs as if to make sure no one saw him) he took Wanda’s invitation into her apartment. “Thank you, Ms. Trzebinski,” he said quietly as she closed the door behind him.

 

She left her hand on the knob for a moment, steeling herself. “You knew Shine wasn’t gonna be here.”

 

“I did,” he said, and as she turned he set the instrument cases down by the ratty couch in their living area. “It’s Thursday, just after four. He’ll be in upper Manhattan for the next two hours.”

 

“What are you, some kind of stalker?” Wanda asked. Because for someone as young and vulnerable as Shine, the line between that and a lover could be thin.

 

“I just listen to him,” Harry said quietly. It looked as though he didn’t know what to do with himself, whether he should sit or remain standing. She moved toward him cautiously.

 

“So you gonna tell me what you’re doing here, then?”

 

He met her eyes, and maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was the result of those terrible, nervous feelings that had filled her up for months, ever since Shine had told her about this Harry with a little light in his eyes that spoke to a very dangerous kind of hope.

 

“I’m moving,” Harry said. “To D.C. I’m — I’m a lawyer, you see. And, well, a senator has, ah, employed me. For personal reasons. I  — I shouldn’t be talking about all this. I suppose I’m a little nervous.”

 

“Nervous?” She parroted, holding out her arms. “Here? In case you ain’t noticed, Harry, me and my boy ain’t exactly royalty.”

 

His lips curled in a soft, sad smile. And he looked down. He _was_ handsome. Shine was right about that. He had broad shoulders, a good bit of meat around his waist, and he wore his long, tan jacket as if he were an old noir detective. “Royalty,” he said softly. “No, but your son is very much larger than life. I'd have believed he was royalty if he told me.”

 

Wanda held out a hand. “Sit down, Harry,” she said, and he obeyed, settling on the edge of their worn-white couch as if he were ready to leap up and run at any moment. She sat heavily on the other end and slung an arm over the back, her eyes narrowing over him. “So you come to tell me you’re leaving. You ain’t told Shine yet?”

 

“No,” Harry said immediately. “No I don’t — that’s why I’m here, you see. I don’t think I can tell him myself.”

 

“Why the fuck not?”

 

He looked up to her at once. Maybe he hadn't expected that kind of language from a woman. “Excuse me?”

 

“It’s a pretty clear question, Harry,” she said, and he swallowed, worrying the hem of his sleeve between two large fingers.

 

“I _tried_ telling him, and I hope — I hope you can believe that I tried. But I just couldn’t. Every time he smiled, I —” he paused, heaving a deep sigh. When he next spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Would you believe me if I told you I loved him?”

 

“No,” she said, ignoring the look of hurt that flashed in Harry’s eyes, “‘cause if you loved him you’d say goodbye like the _adult man_ you’re supposed to be. If you loved him, you wouldn’t’a strung along a _17-year-old kid_ , pretending the two of you could’ve had something.”

 

“Seventeen?” Harry said, spine straightening. “He’s — he’s 20!”

 

“Did he come outta _your_ vagina?” Wanda challenged, though it took her that long to remember that Shine had lied to Harry about his age. “Trust me, boy’s 17, and dumb enough to pretend otherwise.”

 

“I didn’t — didn’t know,” he said, numb it seemed. At Harry’s age, 17 was nearly as bad as 20. It shouldn't have made much of a difference.

 

“You still say you love him?” She asked, not regretting the bite in her voice. “You still say you was dumb enough to fall for some damn kid you picked up off the street? That ain’t how these things work. I know. I’ve _been_ that damn kid to types like you.”

 

Harry put his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. He looked miserable. But that was his own damn fault. For what he had done — was about to do — to her son, he deserved go feel shame, guilt, heartache.

 

“I wasn’t supposed to see him again, after that first time,” Harry said quietly. “I was going to start taking a different route. I thought I had nothing to lose. Just — just one night.”

 

“And here we are half a year later,” Wanda said, rolling her eyes and tossing her hands. “You planning to apologize to him at all? It’s gonna break his fucking heart, Harry. You get that, right? It’s gonna break that boy’s heart.”

 

“That’s — that’s what those are for,” Harry said, gesturing lamely to the instruments sitting in their gleaming cases. It seemed he couldn’t meet Wanda’s eyes, his own still fixed on the worn blue rug beneath his polished shoes. “The instruments. To apologize. I want him to play them. Or sell them. Or do whatever he wants to do with them. It’s all I can really give him.”

 

“You could’ve given him a lot more than that,” Wanda snapped. “Respect for one.”

 

Harry lifted his eyes to her. “I gave him more than I can even express to you, Ms. Trzebinski.”

 

“Oh did you, now? You gonna tell his ma everything you ‘gave’ him?”

 

Harry seemed to wince, drawing back slightly. He may have been twice Wanda’s size, but he was meek, scared.

 

Gentle, Shine would say.

 

“You knew who I was,” Harry began softly. “You had to know this would end eventually.”

 

“Sure I knew,” Wanda said icily. “And _you_ knew. But did Shine?” Harry looked up. “Did you ever think to tell my son this was just some fling to you?”

 

“It wasn—"

 

“I think you should leave,” Wanda said, getting to her own feet abruptly.

 

“Ms. Trzebinski, please understand —"

 

“Oh, I understand,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I understand plenty. Probably more than you do. You might _think_ you loved my boy, but if you did you’d understand he ain't had much in his life. For a minute, he had you and your fancy apartment and your attention and all that. I don't think _you_ understand the hole he's gonna have to fill up now. I don't think you even care what he fills it _with_.”

 

Harry stared at her in anguished contemplation, while out the window behind him the sound of cars whizzed past. A constant cacophony.

 

“You were right,” he finally said. “I should leave. This was my … my last stop. Plane to catch.”

 

Wanda stepped to the side, held out her arm in invitation, and Harry passed, his shoulders drawn up tight. As he reached the door, Wanda in-step behind him, he turned. “Please tell him I'm sorry,” he said.

 

It took all her self control not to slap him. “Won't mean much coming from me, but I'll tell him.”

 

He offered a tight, polite smile, inclined his head, and turned out the door, Wanda watching him walk slowly down the flight of stairs.

 

When she turned back to her apartment and its echoing silence, her eyes fell on the two instrument cases, practically shining in the bare light. Making up her mind, she went to the phone and punched in a familiar number.

 

“Hey Rick,” she snapped when her boss answered. “I ain't coming in today. No, no. Personal stuff. I just … I gotta be here when my boy gets back.”

 

\---

 

That night as Wanda lay in bed, she felt a little better knowing Shine had cried himself to sleep. This would hurt for a while — the first heartbreak always did — but he’d get through it. He had to. She just didn’t know how.

 

But outside her room, sometime late in the night, she heard footsteps down the hallway rug, then the front door opening. When it slammed shut, she winced, rolling over on her thin mattress. Harry might not care what Shine used to fill the hole he left, but Wanda did. And though Shine was resourceful, smart, charming and good at his heart, this was the first time she really, truly worried for him.

 

* * *

  


**January, 1978**

Wanda twisted the phone cord around her finger again, leaning hard against the wall. The thing barely kept its curl anymore with how many times she’d wound and unwound it over the last few weeks. On the other end of the line, Betsy’s voice was gruff as usual, but soothing in its familiarity if nothing else.

 

She needed someone familiar right now.

 

“Wanda, honey, you’re hysterical over nothing.”

 

“It’s been eight days,” Wanda said, glancing to the clock. It was nearing midnight. Nine days, then. Almost nine days.

 

“He hasn’t _disappeared_ ,” a quieter voice chimed in, obviously farther away from the receiver. The thick Latina accent gave Maria away. Betsy’s partner. The two of them were in North Carolina right now, riding their bikes down the East Coast, but Wanda needed them _here_. “You said folks have seen him playing, right?”

 

Wanda scoffed. “Yeah, with a _band_ . Shine don’t play with a band. The people I talked to said the girl was playing xylophone with her _feet_.”

 

“Don’t be such a prude,” Betsy said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “How many times did you run off with someone for a week or more? Only difference was you didn’t have parents to worry about you.”

 

Wanda swallowed. “I know,” she said. “I _know_. And I know he can take care of himself but …”

 

There was a silence, a shuffle, and Maria’s voice came through louder this time. “Wanda,” she said gently. “He’s a smart boy.”

 

And Wanda knew that, really. Terrible at math, science, reading — but smart where it counted. He could hear a song once and emulate it perfectly, hear a lesson once and always ascribe to it. He could survive out there without her.

 

“You’re right,” she sighed. “I didn’t … I didn’t raise an idiot.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Betsy said, laughing. “He’s 19 years old. He’s just stretching his wings is all. We all went through that phase, right? Fucking around and making our own mistakes. It didn’t kill any of us.”

 

“It did get me pregnant,” Wanda pointed out. “But I catch your drift.”

 

“Don’t be hard on yourself. Me and Maria would’ve ended up pregnant too, if one of us had the equipment for it, huh babe?”

 

Maria laughed, and Wanda felt her own heart lightening slightly. “I guess you’re right. Worst that can happen is he knocks up some girl, right? Then, you know, we’ll figure it out.”

 

“Like you did,” Maria said sweetly. “You did good with what you had, Wanda. He’s going to be alright.”

 

Wanda took a deep breath through her nose, nodding, though her friends couldn’t see her. “You’re right. You’re right. He’s — he’s going to be fine.”

 

* * *

  


**July, 1978**

When the doorknob rattled, Wanda nearly jumped out of her seat, reaching already for the baseball bat she kept by the couch. But over the sound of Johnny Carson on the TV, she heard the unmistakable click of a key in the lock before the door swung open.

 

Framed by the doorway, Shine looked smaller than he was last time she’d seen him, nearly two months ago. Always a scrawny kid, now he looked gaunt, emaciated — like he hadn't eaten a thing since he had left this apartment.

 

“Kiddo!” She shouted, tossing the bat to the side and running toward him. He closed the door behind himself, offering her a little, charming smile. He still had that charming smile.

 

“Ma,” he said, but didn’t get much farther than that before she launched herself at him, wrapping him tight in a hug. She felt the dip of his ribs under her arms as she tucked her head against his sharp collarbone, and when she pulled away, his smile had fallen slightly, as if he could feel her heartache, her disappointment.

 

“Where have you been?” She asked, as she always did. Sometimes it was days. Sometimes it was weeks. It had never been _months_.

 

He shrugged and sidled past her, making his way into the kitchenette. “With some friends,” he said. That was his usual line, too. Wanda didn’t know his friends anymore, but she knew their type. She saw them skulking around Shine in the subway stations when she managed to catch a performance, or on benches at the park, watching money fall into his violin case like they were vultures waiting for a wounded animal to finally collapse onto the ground.

 

Wanda watched him silently as he opened up cabinets, searching, it seemed, for something to eat. She’d feed him every scrap of food in the house if it meant he’d stay.

 

Settling on a can of spaghetti, Shine pulled it from the cabinet and placed it on the counter, moving to find a pan. “Let me,” Wanda said, following him into the kitchen. “Just sit down. Watch some TV. I’m … I’m glad you’re home.”

 

They met eyes — those bright eyes of his like gold coins when they caught the light right. Her shining star.

 

“I ain’t stayin’ the night, ma,” Shine confessed, but he leaned up against the counter as she took the pan from the cabinet, setting it on the stove.

 

“Why not?” She asked, turning to him more fully. He had his arms tilted toward his body, some strange caricature of comfort that felt contorted, wrong.

 

He shrugged again. “Stuff to do,” he answered evasively.

 

Taking the can opener from the counter, Wanda began to twist it, channeling her feelings into the crank and turn of it. “Then you’re just here to eat?” She asked, her voice undoubtedly cold even to Shine’s ears.

 

“No,” he answered quickly. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “No, ma. I came to see you.”

 

“You don’t gotta lie,” she said. Tossing the can opener onto the counter with a clatter, she dumped the contents of the can into the pan, cranking up the stove. “You ain’t come to see me in two months.”

 

“It ain’t been that long,” Shine said, but Wanda shot him a look out the side of her eyes.

 

“I count every day,” she said, and in her periphery, Shine straightened.

 

“I’ll come visit more,” he promised immediately.

 

“Visit,” she said, rubbing her head and turning away. “Shine, you _live_ here. Or you’re supposed to. You ain’t helped me with rent money since January. You ain’t stayed more than a couple weeks at a time since Harry —” A sharp intake of breath behind her made her turn around, and she saw the look in her son’s eyes. It still hurt. All this time numbing the pain and it still hurt. “Since Harry left,” she finished.

 

“I’ll get you some money,” Shine said, his voice rough. “That’s — well that’s another reason I come by.”

 

Wanda raised an eyebrow, her eyes scanning Shine’s figure for padded pockets. He wasn’t wearing a jacket in the July heat, and she hadn’t heard the jingle of coins as he walked. She couldn’t imagine he was hiding any significant amount of money in those tight pants he was always wearing. Just as she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, her eyes settled on his arms, no longer turned inward, hanging limp at his sides.

 

Red lumps rose along the crook of his left elbow, pucker marks where a needle had gone through. They were healing up a little bit, none so recent as to be in his system now, but she knew full well what track marks looked like from the junkies who tried to cause trouble at the bodega. She knew full well what Shine had been doing to himself.

 

He didn’t seem to notice her gaze as he turned back to the stove, grabbing a wooden spoon and stirring his spaghetti. “Thing is,” he said when it was obvious Wanda couldn’t form words. “I came to ah … to pick up that violin. Harry’s violin. I need — I could use the cash, you know? And then I can give ya some of it. It’s worth a lot of money.”

 

Wanda stared at the back of his head, horror rising like bile in her throat, choking her. “You’re the one who told me we ain’t gonna sell that violin,” she said. “‘Wait for a rainy day,’ you said.”

 

He fell silent for second, stirring as if he had no idea what else to do with himself. “Days have been getting pretty rainy for me, ma,” he admitted softly.

 

“Are you in trouble?” She asked, a thousand fears flitting through her mind. She grabbed Shine’s shoulder to turn him, and the look on his face was borderline pathetic.

 

“No,” he said. “No, I just could use the cash is all. I don’t owe no one nothing. I pay my debts.”

 

She didn’t want to ask him how. Did the money he made busking and playing in bars cover his drugs? God, she hoped so. She could only hope so.

 

“So why do you need the money?” She asked, her voice shaking. “You’ve got a home to come back to, food anytime you need it. Shine, honey.” She grabbed his shoulders, running her hands down his arms to his hands, avoiding the marks in his elbow. “I’ve worked your whole life so you don’t hurt for anything you need.”

 

“There’s other shit I need, ma,” he said, but he gripped her hands tight.

 

“So you’re going to sell that violin for drug money. God damn it, Shine, if that’s what you’re doing you gotta tell me right now.”

 

He grimaced, looking away. “It ain’t,” he lied. Wanda always saw through his lies. Breaking away, Wanda tossed Shine’s hands at him, wheeling around and putting a hand to her mouth. Her eyes stung harshly, tears threatening to fall, but she never cried in front of her son. It wasn’t fair to cry in front of her son.

 

“You ain’t taking that violin,” she whispered.

 

“What?” he asked loudly. “It’s _mine_.”

 

Her small hands curled into fists at her sides. “I don’t care,” she said. “I been keeping it for you all this time. I been working my two jobs all this time. I been paying rent on my own _all this time_. You ain’t taking that violin and you ain’t taking that guitar and you ain’t spending another fucking cent on — on —” her momentum left her. She couldn’t say it. She flung her hand at Shine’s arm, putting her head in her hand.

 

“Ma,” Shine said, approaching. “What I do with my own damn life is none of your —”

 

“None of my business?” She shouted, wheeling on him. He took a swift step back up against the stove. “ _Your life_ is none of my business? Don’t you fucking forget who kept you when she didn’t have two fucking dimes to rub together. Don’t you fucking forget who raised you. I made a — a fucking  _investment_ in you, Shine. Don’t you go and ruin it.”

 

Shine’s expression went sour, teeth clenched behind his thin, pale lips. “I ain’t ain’t ruining nothing. I’m living on _my_ terms, ma. Mine. And I’m —”

 

“You’re going to kill yourself out there,” she shouted. “And if that’s what you want then fine, but you ain’t taking nothing from this house. You ain’t taking nothing from me if this is what you’re gonna do with it.” She snatched his wrist and yanked out his arm so he could see what he was doing to himself. How could he not _see_?

 

He pulled out of her grasp, moving toward the door. “Don’t walk away from me!” She shouted, tears spilling out of her eyes now. “Shine, don’t you fucking touch that door.”

 

Yanking it open, Shine shot a look over his shoulder. Their eyes met for a brief, horrifying moment before the door slammed shut behind him.

 

Wanda fell against the counter, heart pounding, legs shaking, tears choking her throat and shaking her shoulders. And as the pot of spaghetti bubbled and sizzled beside her, she fell to the floor.

 

* * *

 

**August, 1979**

Wanda would have been less shocked to find a stranger on her couch than she was to find her son. She had just dropped her keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off her shoes and flicked on the light when the sight of him there on the sofa nearly killed her where she stood.

 

Months since she’d seen him, almost a _year_. And he turned his eyes to hers with a look she had seen a thousand times in his young life. Contrition. Fear. It was the look he’d worn when he had been suspended from school — and later when he dropped out completely. It was the look he’d worn when Wanda had asked him about Harry that first time, before he knew for sure how she would feel. And suddenly the last few months of resentment and fear and pain didn’t matter as much as that thin, trembling body, curled up on her couch.

 

Wanda didn’t even have to think about forgiving him. It was done the moment she saw him.

 

“Shine,” she gasped, running forward. He didn’t get up, merely held out a hand to her as she approached. She grasped that hand in both of hers as she knelt by the couch. He felt clammy, sweaty and cold, and his hand wasn’t the only part of him that was shaking.

 

“Ma,” he whispered, choked off, lips trembling. “Ma, I’m sorry. I fucked up, ma.”

 

“I know,” she said, and she pulled him in tight, running a hand along the knobs of his spine, horrified to feel every individual vertebra. “What happened, honey?”

 

“I fucked up,” he said again, and his arms were around her now. Tears seeping into her shirt, Wanda held him tighter. “I gotta get away from them. I hate this. I fucking hate this.”

 

“Who?” she asked, though she thought she knew.

 

“Joey,” he said. “Trish. I let ‘em do what they want ‘cause they got the smack but it ain’t worth it, ma. It ain’t fucking worth it anymore. I fucked everything up. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

She could barely understand him through his tears, through the tremors. He was obviously going through some withdrawals. However long he’d been away from his dealers, friends, lovers, whatever they could be called, it was long enough to leave him in this state. She wondered how long it took him to gather the courage to come home.

 

“I forgive you,” she said immediately, arms tightening around him. “You know I was only mad ‘cause you’re better than this, better than them.”

 

He tucked his head into her shoulder. “I ain’t,” he said. “I ain’t better than no one. Thought I was. Thought I could kick it on my own and I can’t, ma.”

 

Pulling away slightly, Wanda took his shoulders, urging him to look up. When he did, she tried to smile. The same smile she gave him when she wanted him to know she understood everything he was afraid to tell her. He had to know he’d only ever find her smile there when he needed it.

 

“You could, if you had to,” Wanda said. “Fact you’re here tells me that much. But you don’t gotta kick it on your own. You got me.”

 

“I fucked that up, too,” he said miserably, clutching her sleeve like he used to do when he was a kid. He wasn’t a kid anymore, but he was still so young.

 

“No you didn’t,” she said. “I know it was the drugs. We’re gonna get you clean, you hear me?”

 

He nodded, and she scooped him back up, rocking slightly back and forth like she did when he had been a toddler, crying for lack of food. God, she was so tired. She had been tired for months, world-weary and overwhelmed. But her son was back. And she felt stronger already.

 

* * *

 

**November, 1979**

It was always nice to see him play in sunlight, surrounded by greenery. Not often they got out to Central Park anymore, what with Wanda’s schedule and the damn cough that wouldn't leave her lungs, but on rare days like this she could sit on a bench and watch Shine tap his feet on the pathway, smiling and laughing at his adoring fans (the old women and pigeons passing by, mostly, but adoring fans in his mind).

 

Wanda coughed into her hand, her chest aching, but she was smiling too wide to care. He’d put on a little weight. He’d perfected “Thriller” on his old, beat-up violin. And they were happy.

 

* * *

 

**January, 1980**

Bless his heart, Shine had spent so much time in waiting rooms these last few weeks. Wanda would often come out of the doctor's office to find him asleep in a chair, or flipping through tattered home improvement magazines, making up for lost time by vowing to stick around whenever she needed him — wherever she needed him.

 

At least, this time, he didn’t look bored. As the nurse closed the door behind Wanda, Wanda saw Shine leaning on the reception counter, wearing his charming smile as he twirled a pen in his hand and the young woman at the desk giggled sweetly, presumably at something he'd said. “So I told him, yeah, I'll watch your dog,” Shine was saying, “and he pulls the damn thing out of his cart and it's — I'm not making this up — a _raccoon_.”

 

“No!” the woman said, putting a hand to her lips. Wanda cleared her throat.

 

“Ma!” Shine said, pushing off the counter. “That was fast. All done?”

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, more to the receptionist than her son.

 

“Naw, it's fine. I'll catch you later, alright, Lucy? You got my number,” he said, and the receptionist smiled.

 

“Alright,” she said, her cheeks flushed, “I’ll call you later.”

 

Shine grinned, waving for Wanda to follow.

 

“C'mon, ma, you hungry? I'm thinking tacos. Saw a cart on our way in.” They walked out the waiting room and into the hallway, an endless line of closed doors where the other specialists were giving their own bad news to their own patients. A little cluster of elevators stood off to the side, and Wanda gave her son a smile as they wandered toward them. She didn't really feel it.

 

“Sure. Whatever you want, kiddo,” she said, and Shine turned to her as he jabbed the elevator button.

 

“What's wrong?” he asked, and Wanda looked away. She could have put it off. Part of her wanted to. They could get lunch, maybe take a walk through Midtown if the sun was still out. And maybe she could tell him tonight, when they were home and making dinner and when the storm would be just a little bit calmer inside her.

 

But Wanda didn’t have enough time to put anything off. She’d always lived her life through the philosophy of ‘now or never,’ and in this case it _had_ to be now.

 

“Got my prognosis,” she said. She was trying to put on a brave face, but it was hard, knowing what this meant. She couldn't pretend with Shine. She was as bad a liar as he was.

 

“And?” he asked, the lift gone from his voice.

 

“A few weeks, the doctor said,” Wanda whispered, and the elevator dinged, its doors sliding open. She went to step out, but Shine stayed still, staring at her.

 

 _Don't_ , she wanted to say. _Don't look at me like that, please._

 

All his life, she had tried to be strong for him. Now, more than anything, she needed him to be strong for her. But he wasn’t ready for this. He couldn’t possibly be ready for this. Wanda didn’t think she was, either.

 

“A few weeks for what?” he asked.

 

She put her hand over the door to stop it closing on them, but it may have been an excuse to look away from him. “A few weeks til the cancer catches up with me,” she said, trying for a casual tone. “Can’t give me better than that. Stage four, he said. That’s the — the bad stage.”

 

The elevator beeped, complaining, but Shine didn't move. He looked frozen where he stood, fingertips pressed to the elevator wall as if he needed it to keep himself steady. “A few — a few _weeks_?”

 

“Unless we can scrape up enough money for chemo. He mentioned some, uh, experimental treatments, too. But the doctor says there’s no chance of remission, so even then it's just a matter of … of how much time.”

 

Shine blinked, his lips gently parted, digesting the news as she had done sitting on that paper sheet in the doctor’s office, asking for just a few minutes so she could collect herself. Shine would need it, too. “What does that mean?” Shine asked. “Remission.”

 

“It means I’m not getting better no matter what we do.” He looked pale. Though his skin was usually a few shades darker than her own, now it was white as paper. If anyone looked at the two of them, they’d think he was the one who was sick. “Come on, Shine,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t mind getting out of here before I croak.”

 

“That ain’t funny, ma,” he said quietly, but he moved, finally joining her outside the elevator as they walked into the building’s cold, corporate lobby, its fountain gurgling away and echoing against the vaulted ceiling. “What — if you get —” he paused, ran a hand over his face, and Wanda could feel him trying to keep it together, to think things through. “How long if you do the chemo and shit?”

 

“Months, maybe,” Wanda said, but she tightened her lips, reaching out and putting a hand on his elbow. “But we can’t really think about that, can we, kiddo? Even if I kept working and you got two jobs yourself —”

 

Shine met her eyes, his own swimming, and before Wanda could blink he’d swept her into a hug, holding her tight and burying his nose in her shoulder. She recovered from the shock just soon enough to return the embrace, her heart aching. She wanted to apologize. For leaving him too soon. For leaving him all alone. It was the cancer that would kill her, but she had no one to blame for this but herself.

 

“We can afford the chemo,” Shine said quietly. He didn’t pull away.

 

“No we can’t,” Wanda replied. She took him by the shoulders and held him out, making sure their eyes locked so he could see how serious this was. “And don’t go getting your hopes up that we can. We need to accept —”

 

“It’s a rainy day, ma,” Shine said. Wanda stared at him, the words striking a chord of familiarity in her mind.

 

“What —”

 

“If we was ever going to need the money, it’s now,” Shine continued, taking her hand. He was trembling. And in that flashing moment, Wanda recalled the instrument case they’d hidden under the floorboards in Shine’s bedroom to keep safe in case anyone broke in. The violin he had almost sold for drugs. The violin she had almost sold for rent. The violin they both thought better to leave untouched for the reminders it held.

 

Her eyes widened. “How much is it worth?”

 

Shine took a breath. “I always been too afraid to find out,” he admitted. “Lots, though. Thousands, if we get the right person. We can get you the best treatment there is, the best everything. Just — ma, we gotta try.”

 

Bringing a hand to his cheek, Wanda looked into his eyes, golden in the white light from the lobby’s tall windows. He had that glint of determination in them — a determination that had always made her so proud.

 

“Alright,” she said. “We’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

**March, 1980**

 

“Ma, you ain’t gonna believe this.” Shine burst into the hospital room with those words, a plastic shopping bag slung over the crook of his elbow, his violin case clutched in his other hand, his hair wild from the wind outside. She managed to smile, though the pain made every expression look a bit like a grimace, and the morphine had stopped helping days ago.

 

“Good news?” Wanda asked, her voice a bare croak. Shine circled her hospital bed, tossed his violin on the ground and leaned over to press a kiss to her clammy forehead, his hand resting on her shoulder.

 

“Great news,” he said, pulling away. He cast around for the little plastic chair the nurses kept in her room, and tugged it across the floor, finally settling down into it. Plastic bag on his lap, Shine began to unload his bounty. A bottle of iced tea, a pack of gummy bears — for him, most likely — and a little tupperware full of salad, hopefully with a bit more of that blackberry vinaigrette she liked. Better than hospital food by a mile, but still healthy. He was so concerned with her eating _healthy_.

 

“Out with it, kiddo,” she prompted, as he cracked open the tupperware. He smiled at her.

 

“I met someone.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Shine, you’ve gotta stop flirting with the nurses,” Wanda said, and he snorted.

 

“Not like that!” he said, and he tossed his hand at her. “I mean I met someone who works at a recording studio. Agreed to help me get a few tracks down.”

 

Wanda’s eyes widened, and she tried to shuffle up to a sitting position. He held out a hand to her, but stopped short of holding her down. “No, ma, don’t you move around too much, alright?”

 

“You’re — you’re going to make an album? Really?” Joy swelled in her heart, making her forget, even for a moment, that she probably wouldn’t be around to hear it.

 

“Yeah, or, well, just a demo,” he said. “Can you believe it? Guy said he dug my style.” Shine brushed his shoulder as if pretending to preen, and Wanda let out an exhale that would’ve been a giggle if she’d been stronger.

 

“I’m so proud of you, kiddo,” she sighed.

 

Settling everything on her bedside table, Shine scooted forward and took her hand, squeezing it tight. It was so small anymore, frail in comparison to his own.

 

His smile fell just a little. “I told him we, uh, gotta do it soon. So I can bring you the 8-track.”

 

So she could hear it before she died. Neither of them needed to say it. They’d shared months of tears over what was going to happen when the chemo made her too weak, when the cancer made it too hard to breathe. Already through the tubes in her nose she was having trouble filling her lungs, though it may have been the bittersweet sadness choking her.

 

“Figured I’d head over there once Betsy and Maria come over — so you ain’t lonely and all. Is that okay with you?”

 

Smiling, she squeezed his hand in return, unsure if he even felt it with how weak her grip was. She had practically begged him to continue to go out, live his life, perform. If he had his way he’d sit at her side all day every day until she took her last breath. It was sweet of him to ask, when he knew she would’ve smacked him over the head if he passed up this opportunity.

 

“That’s perfect, kiddo,” she said. “You gonna give me a sneak preview?”

 

“You always get a sneak preview,” Shine said. “You wanna sit up? Get some food? Then I’ll play something for ya.”

 

Wanda nodded, and Shine stood, helping her move up to a sitting position, making sure the pillow was set up lengthwise behind her so she could relax against the headboard. When she settled, a little out of breath, he reached over to the bedside table and retrieved her salad and fork, holding it out to her.

 

Gratefully, Wanda took it, but she wasn’t terribly hungry right now. She’d make a show of it for her son.

 

“So …” she began, pausing for a deep breath. “So what are you going to record?”

 

“A few originals,” Shine said, leaning down to retrieve his violin. The same damn one he’d been using a for a decade. Maybe once Wanda was gone, he could buy something better with the money left over from the Balestrieri. “A love song or two. At least one cover, though.”

 

“Which one?” Wanda asked, and Shine smiled, setting the violin up against his shoulder.

 

He drew the bow over the strings, set up his fingers, and began with a high, warbling note. “My favorite,” he said.

 

The tune that sprang from his instrument then felt imminently familiar, even at its first notes. He had played this song for her a few times since she’d come to stay in the hospital. Almost as if repaying a debt from the nights she had stayed up and sung it to him while he sweat and shook through withdrawals. They played this song all the time on those pop stations Shine liked, but god if Shine didn’t find a way to make every song his own.

 

“Chiquitita tell me what’s wrong,” Shine began to sing, “you’re enchained by your own sorrows…” Wanda smiled, closed her eyes, and listened. “In your eyes, there is no hope for tomorrow. How I hate to see you like this …”

 

Wanda began to hum along, though she doubted Shine could hear her. The violin felt loud in the little room, a place the doctors had brought a woman to die. Its walls weren’t meant to hold such beautiful things. But the power of transfiguration Shine had over music applied to space, as well. He could turn a graffiti-stained subway station into Carnegie Hall, a playground into Madison Square Garden, a hospital room into a recording studio.

 

He sang for a while, and Wanda listened, grateful to hear the strength in his voice. This song always reminded her how far he had come. How proud she was that he’d devoted himself to his recovery and finally gotten clean. She couldn’t help but regret that she would never see him flourish, but she could at least know — die knowing — that he would someday. No force in the universe could convince Wanda Trzebinski to leave this world unless she knew her son would be alright.

 

“Chiquitita, you and I cry,” Shine continued, the final chorus. “But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you. Let me hear you sing once more like you did before. Sing a new song, Chiquitita. Try once more like you did before. Sing a new song, Chiquitita.” Wanda cracked open her eyes, noticing Shine’s were closed as he played the lilting outtro, too cheery for what the song meant to them both now. He usually looked so happy when he played music, but happiness wasn’t the word she would use to describe his expression right now. He looked a part of the music — as bittersweet as its lyrics. And as he finished the song and met her eyes, his smile looked the same.

 

From the doorway, a round of applause rang out, and Wanda turned her head to see her friends standing there, Betsy in her big leather jacket and that godawful mullet, and plump little Maria with her wild hair shoved under a beanie. They, like Shine, both bore plastic shopping bags, though their smiles were wider, happier than his own.

 

“Look at you, kid,” Betsy said. “Better every time we see you.” To her side, Wanda heard Shine stand, and she turned to watch him set the violin on the bed as he made his way toward his aunts.

 

“Heya, you two,” he said, swooping in for a hug, wrapping his arms around them both. “Thanks for coming.”

 

“What are you thanking us for? Gotta see our girl,” Maria said sweetly, and the three of them made their way further into the room, Shine opting to stand while Betsy took the one chair. She tossed her feet up on the mattress, and Maria settled on the other side of Wanda's bed.

 

“How you doing, sugar?” Betsy asked, nudging her with a boot. That was about as touchy-feely as Betsy got, and it was its own kind of comfort.

 

“It's not so bad today,” she lied. “Bored out of my mind 'til Shine showed up, though.”

 

She turned to her son, who was putting his violin back in its case. He lifted his eyes to her and smiled.

 

“Won't be bored now,” Maria said, lifting her bag and putting it in Wanda's lap. “We brought presents.”

 

“What kinda presents?” Shine asked, leaning forward as Wanda looked inside. She let out a snort of a laugh, and immediately started coughing.

 

“Dirty magazines,” Betsy said while Maria rubbed Wanda's back, easing her through the cough. “Piles of em. We got _Trix, Top Sex, Mr. Sex, Sex Bizarre_ —”

 

“Ma don't need any of those!” Shine complained loudly, and when Wanda caught her breath and opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was his aghast face at the foot of her bed. His cheeks were flaming.

 

Wanda waved Maria off and pulled out the stack of magazines, their covers bearing a variety of large, turgid penises and scantily clad hunks. “You two’re too old to go to porn shops,” Shine said. “Where'd you even find that shit?”

 

“Under your mattress,” Maria shot back, and Wanda laughed again, mindful to keep it in her throat, not her chest. It hurt so much to _laugh_ anymore.

 

“I love ‘em,” Wanda said. “Best present ever. All Shine brought me was a salad.”

 

His aunts turned to him with scandalized looks. “You're gonna kill her early at this rate,” Betsy complained. It was a joke, and they all knew it, but Shine's expression faltered a little bit. Betsy, seemingly realizing this, filled the silence quickly. “But you know, nothing healthier than a good sexual appetite, right?”

 

“Gross!” Shine said, tossing his hand at her. But it had the desired effect. They laughed, the four of them, and for a moment Wanda’s mind shot her back to those nights in tent city, where they all curled up together to fight off the cold, teaching Shine jokes and listening to his little squeal of a laugh filling up their makeshift shelter.

 

He was still that little boy in so many ways.

 

Tucking the magazines back in their bag, Wanda glanced around the room, filled with her family. And she felt gratitude for the fact that she wouldn’t be leaving them all alone. No matter what, they’d have each other. On the good days, the gratitude was enough to push her resentment aside. Her anger at the time cut short. Her fear of what might happen next.

 

* * *

 

**April, 1980**

It would be his birthday soon, Wanda thought regretfully, watching Shine as he sat back in the hospital chair, chewing the heads off his gummy bears and flipping through one of his fashion magazines. He would be 21 years old. Time went so fast. He was a young man now, an honest-to-god adult. And someday he would find a career doing what he loved. Someday he would _fall_ in love. Someday he might have children himself.

 

And she would miss every moment of it. The great privilege of her life had been watching this boy grow up, and maybe it was selfish to want to see this through. Wanda liked to see things through. She wished, more than anything, that she could see him through.

 

He shouldn't have been spending all his time here, but he had been by her side around the clock for days. They both knew it wouldn't be long now, and she wasn't going to ask him to leave. Maybe he needed to be here as much as she needed to see him. Soak up as much time together as they could.

 

“Shine,” she said quietly, and Shine lifted his head immediately.

 

“Yeah, Ma? Need some water?” He stood, setting his magazine off to the side, but Wanda waved a weak hand at him.

 

“No, no,” she said. “Sit down, you goon.” He did as he was told, probably for the first time in his life, and Wanda smiled.

 

“Everything okay, Ma?”

 

“Yeah,” she said, though of course it wasn’t. Her body was dying around her, and she could feel it crumbling. But Shine didn’t need to hear that. He knew. “I was just thinking — you remember when you asked me about your dad, and your grandparents and all?”

 

Shine scooted his chair forward a little bit, probably to hear her better over the sound of her respirator puffing away. “Yeah,” he said. “We was makin’ up that family tree. You still got it on the fridge.” He smiled, and she returned it as well as she could.

 

“You only asked me once,” she said. “Most kids — you know, if they don’t got a parent or whatever — most kids don’t just let it go like that. But you only asked me about him once. Your grandparents too.”

 

“Yeah,” he said again, prompting her to continue, as if he couldn’t tell what was strange about it.

 

“Why?” She asked. “You could’ve gotten on me about it. There’s ways we could’ve figured out who your dad was. And, shit, if you really wanted, I could’ve tracked down my mom and dad. Introduced you.”

 

“They hurt you,” Shine said. “I ain’t forgotten that, ma. I don’t wanna meet people like that.”

 

“But your dad —”

 

“Ain’t never mattered to me,” Shine finished for her.

 

Wanda swallowed, glancing away, furious that she felt tears stinging her eyes when Shine seemed fine with all the untied threads of his life. How was he _fine_?

 

“You don’t feel like you missed out or nothing?” Wanda asked quietly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, kiddo.”

 

“I don’t,” Shine said decisively, and out the corner of her eye Wanda saw his hand come to rest on the edge of her mattress. “I know we ain’t always had the best go of things —” She snorted, recognizing the understatement. “But ain’t it kinda stupid to pine after some guy I ain’t even met? Who knows what kinda person my dad mighta been. But I know what kinda ma _you’ve_ been, and you did real good by me. You and Besty and Maria and Rabbi Alderman and Hildi and all them. I got the best family there is. Whoever he is, he would'a just crowded it up anyway.”

 

Wanda’s lip trembled, and she nodded, reaching out blindly to find Shine’s hand. He held it tight. Silent for a few seconds, Shine stroked her knuckles. “Do you —” he paused, then continued as if forcing himself to, as if he knew it might be his last chance to ask. “Do you feel like _you_ missed out on something?”

 

She looked up to him, the question in his eyes belying the question he had actually asked. _Was I enough?_ he seemed to be asking. _Was I good enough?_

 

The slight breath she could hold anymore left her lungs, the image of her son swimming in her vision as twin tears rolled down her cheeks.

 

“I don’t have no regrets, kiddo,” she said softly. “I used to feel lonely. All the time I felt lonely. Figured I had nobody in the world I hadn’t already pushed away. But —” she paused, trying to take a steadying breath. “But then you came along, didn’t you? And I knew I’d always have you. Only thing I’m gonna miss out on is — is the rest of your life.” Another tear tore down the path carved by the first, and soon they started to stream in earnest, a tide she didn’t have the strength to stem. Wanda tried to keep her breath in her chest even as it sputtered. “You gotta promise me you’re gonna be okay, okay?”

 

“Course I’m not gonna be okay,” he said, the look in his glassy eyes suggesting it was cruel of her even to ask. “How could I be okay once you’re gone?”

 

Wanda sniffed back an indignant kind of laugh, reaching up with her free hand to wipe her tears. “Don’t you tell your dying mother that,” she said. “That ain’t exactly a comfort.”

 

“Sorry,” he said, scooting to the edge of his chair and bringing his other hand to hers. “You want me to lie?”

 

“No,” Wanda said, frustrated. “I want you to _be_ okay.”

 

He gave her a tight, sad smile. “I’ll do my best, ma. You know I will, right?”

 

Releasing a little tension, Wanda leaned back on the pillow. Those few tears had exhausted her. Everything exhausted her anymore. “I know, kiddo,” she said on a short exhale. “You always do.”

 

The hands holding hers loosened slightly, and beside her she heard Shine’s slight sniffle. “I ain’t never told you how sorry I was,” he said. “But, you know, I _am_ sorry.”

 

“For what?” she asked, turning to him, knowing she probably looked as confused as she felt. He had apologized over and over again for the drugs. And he’d been making up for that mistake for more than a year.

 

“I mean, all of it, right? Twenty-one years you’ve been — been putting up with me and all my shit. I, uh, I wish you could stick around. So you can see I ain’t gonna waste my whole life, and all. I wish you could — you know, just see I ain’t gonna disappoint you forever.”

 

His eyes, fixed on the linoleum floor, looked shiny, wet, like he was just holding back his own tears. Trying to be strong. In that moment, he was seven years old again, crying by the laundromat because he thought he wasn’t good enough. He always thought so little of himself.

 

“Don’t you talk like that, kiddo,” Wanda said. Shine looked up to her. “I’m so damn proud of you I could choke.”

 

“Why?” he asked. “I ain’t done nothing.”

 

“You got through a lot of rough times, like your own ma did.” She squeezed his hand. “And you’ve got big plans for yourself — like I _never_ did.”

 

“They’re just plans,” Shine said. “Just ‘cause I want somethin’ doesn’t mean I’m gonna get it.”

 

“But you won’t give up on it, neither,” Wanda said. “I _know_ that.”

 

“Wish I did.” He laid his other hand over hers and they fell silent for a moment. Then, quietly, “How are you so damn sure?”

 

“‘Cause you’re my little light,” Wanda said gently. He met her eyes, and she watched a single tear like a little jewel roll down his cheek. “And you’re gonna shine so bright someday.”

 

* * *

 

**November, 1985**

Pinching a corner of his sleeve, Shine rubbed away some of the snow that had collected on the ridges of the embossed Star of David above his mother’s name. He wore his fur-lined hood up over his head, not because he was all that cold, but because people recognized his bright, violet hair, and it was best to hide it when he went anywhere public. His eyes, too, he covered with a huge pair of aviators that cast enough of a shadow on his cheeks to disguise his face. He looked like a dick, but if he was incognito, who could care? The disguise worked for him every week he made this trek to the cemetery.

 

“Sorry I didn’t bring a broom this time,” he said as he knelt to brush more snow from the base of the stone. It was wet, thick, melting into chunks in the sunlight. “I didn’t even think about the snow. I been away for a bit but I hope you ain’t been worried.”

 

Sitting back on his heels, Shine raked his eyes over the grave, a simple slab of stone surrounded by stones that looked exactly like it. Except, of course, this was the grave of Wanda Trzebinski, so there was _no_ grave quite like it.

 

“Been on tour,” Shine continued, smiling. “Europe. I know you never got over to London, but ma you woulda loved it. Paris, too. I figured while I was there I’d go shopping for some of them fancy French designer clothes, and I just spent a buncha money on food instead. Like ya always say, gotta keep in mind what’s important.” He laughed, though his smile faded slightly as his eyes fell. “But, ah, well. Not like I’m hurtin' for dough anymore. Latest numbers: I got 58 million, 352 thousand and 529 bucks in the bank, plus 38 cents. Waitin’ for some money to come through from the tour, though. Would'a had more if I ain’t spent so much on that damn apartment, but it’s so nice, ma. I got heated floors in the bathroom." He rubbed his hands together to get some warmth in his fingers. "Martha — you know my publicist? She bets by next year I’ll be up to 80 million the way my records have been going, and once this new one hits the shelves.” He paused, swallowing a hard lump in his throat. “I just wanted to let you know.”

 

He always told her how much he had saved. Just as he used to tell her down to the penny how much he made busking, how much he’d gotten in tips when he used to play the bars. Like he could quantify her pride, though he knew he never needed to.

 

“Anyway, I don’t got a lot of time to hang around today. Got an interview, then I gotta take a nap before the show or I’m gonna croak right there onstage. It's my last show of the year tonight. Exclusive tickets, let me tell you. Packin’ Carnegie Hall. Did ya ever think I’d be playin’ the Hall? No one ever did! Not even me! Even after that album did so good, I didn’t think they’d let me on that stage.” He laughed, and cast his eyes over the cemetery. The nearby graves lay absent of visitors, and the few figures in his line of sight stood far enough away as to be specks.

 

Decisively, he leaned to the side and unfastened the buckles of his violin case. His old one, Bertha, named because he had gotten her for his birthday. One of the many things his ma had given him. “No one ever tells ya how busy being famous is, ma,” he continued, taking Bertha from her case. She felt familiar in his hands, warm. Like old times, though he played her every week when he came to visit his mother. “And, I know it ain’t right of me to complain with all that bread in the bank, but it gets kinda lonely if I’m bein’ honest.” A breeze blew past. Lifting the violin to his shoulder, he began to tune it, more out of nervous habit than necessity. He always kept Bertha tuned up

 

“But, uh, I met a guy the other night. Real sweet — didn’t even know who I was. Not to toot my own horn or nothin’, but that don’t happen too much.” He smiled, glancing at the headstone as if sharing a look with his mother. Whenever he said something cocky, she’d always give him that indulgent kind of smile, like she knew he was putting on a front. Shine imagined that smile as he glanced away. “I invited him to the show. Figured if he makes it, things could — I dunno. Go from there. Ain’t often I meet anyone sweet anymore, not unless they’re after something. You wouldn’t _believe_ how sweet people can get when they’re after something.” He paused, settling his chin against the chinrest, closing his eyes as he set the bow on the strings. “But, hey, ‘nough about all that. You get a sneak preview for the show tonight, ma. Y’always do. What do ya wanna listen to?”

 

He played a few fast notes, just to be sure Bertha was ready — and to be sure he was. Then, he traced his gaze over the lines of her name. “‘Chiquitita?’” He paused. “Nah, that one always makes me cry anymore. How about ‘Mr. Sandman?’ Y’always liked that one.” The breeze picked up once again, carrying tiny flakes of snow from the nearby trees. The few that made it under his hood melted against his cheek, leaving little shining beads on his skin.

 

“Ah, never mind,” he said, closing his eyes once again. “I got it.”

 

Quietly at first, Shine began to play the long-familiar notes of a song he’d heard more times than he could count. When he’d been born, and for a long time after, it had been a song of resistance, resilience, strength. But to Wanda it had meant something else.

 

“This little light of mine,” Shine sang as he played. “I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine …”

 

The music grew in strength, getting louder, lifting over the breeze and the trees and the headstones in their neat rows. It rang out in the snow-dampened quiet of the afternoon, bold, but childlike; sweet, but strong.

 

Tonight he would have an audience of thousands, but he never felt prouder than times like this, when he could prove to his ma that everything she’d done for him had been worth it in the end. He liked to think that, even though she never lived to see his first big show, never lived to hear his first album, never lived to sleep in a brand new bed in a brand new apartment in Midtown, maybe she still knew that, after everything, he had turned out okay.

 

“Let it shine,” he sang, “let it shine, let it shine …”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all again so much if you got this far!!! I need to impress upon y'all that I always hate the trope of killing a character's mom -- it can be super overdone -- but I made Shine when I was 14 (literally half my life ago) and certain parts of his backstory are set in stone. So I tried to give her life and death as much honor and dignity and meaning as possible. I hope it was successful?
> 
> Anyway, aside from the pain, I'm so happy to be writing so much about Shine. I have three other stories about him (and Valen) in draft form, so uhhhhhhhh.... I hope you're ready for more :')


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